


aphelion

by asakami



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dark!Elsa, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Gothic Setting, Lovecraftian Horror, References to Bloodborne, cosmic horror, dark!Anna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25379728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asakami/pseuds/asakami
Summary: “Steal the crown, and your ache will be tender.”And when the time comes, the goddess will let this demon feed from her carcass. Until then, she will continue to hold her, protect her, and love her.
Relationships: Anna/Elsa (Disney)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 201





	1. like a summer breeze

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a weird one for you. I’ve always wanted to borrow Assassin’s Creed/Bloodborne/Lovecraftian/gothic elements and apply them into an Elsanna story, but I never had the will to actually do it. That being said, I am doing it now lmao. I also need to point out that while I will be applying the aforementioned themes to this story, I will be adding some of my own twists. I apologize if you do not like how it doesn’t stick to the original lore.
> 
> One more warning: I think this is the most graphic thing I have written. And if you’ve seen my other works (not just in this fandom), you’ll know that this means the story will get really explicit. Better run while you still can.
> 
> Whatever happens, I sincerely hope you enjoy this story. Happy reading!

There is a particular colour that Princess Elsa is fond of. It exists on the surface of the oceans, the shallowest parts of the beaches, and it is, within the princess’ vivid imagination, the colour that defines a rainy summer day.

Such a colour is always found on the palette for her paintings. It is as soothing as it is lively, as spectacular as it is captivating.

It is a colour that often penetrates her dreams. Fills the skies, the rivers, the moon.

It is also the colour of this girl’s blood.

But the girl, despite the splendor that encapsulates her soft gaze, lies along the wet cobblestone, lifeless. Deep, purple bruises and scars are scattered around her bony limbs, and her back—it is littered with bloodied gashes, torn through that sorry excuse of a shirt. Her unkempt, copper hair is impossibly tangled with dirt and her own blood. She is merely lying there on her stomach, unmoving.

The sublime colours of the girl’s blood spiral like a cloud of cosmic dust, in the rain she lies in—a pool of aqua, a galaxy of blue.

Toying with the blood of the gods, Princess Elsa has been taught that the Vilebloods were abominations. The colour of their silver hair, their short lifespan, their strange blood—all so different from that of the pale-skinned, red-blooded Arendellians.

But now, as Princess Elsa stares at the body of this weak, dying child, she cannot help but to be amazed. Mesmerized.

Other than the magnificent colour of the blood, this girl is not so unlike herself. Her copper hair, likewise, does not coincide with the descriptions that the princess knows.

Curiosity consumes her, and the princess takes a cautious step forward, deeper into the dark alleyway. The rain soaks into the silky material of her white cloak—a direct contrast to the girl’s tattered rags, and the princess cannot contain the sob in her throat. What sorts of pain might this girl be going through, she wonders? How did she come to such a tragic state? So many questions. So everlastingly entrancing. Those teal eyes are, after all, tethered desperately onto her, almost as though they are begging her to stay, to come forth. Alluring. Like they are conveying a profound truth, and the princess is drawn in.

She kneels next to the girl, and although it is unbecoming for a princess to lay hands on something so filthy, her fingertips come into contact with the girl’s shoulder.

Summer solstice is but several days ago; the temperature in the country lingers in a benign warmth that is slightly higher than that of springtime’s, and—indeed—the rain has aided in cooling the afternoon down, but it is not enough to leave one freezing.

Which is exactly how the skin of this girl feels. Freezing, like ice. Is this yet another characteristic of the Vileblood?

Princess Elsa shirks away from the touch. She does not know what to do. How can she? How can a member of the royal family, a sheltered preadolescence who can indulge in any luxury, so as long as she wishes, know what to do?

But she wants to help. As the next in line to the throne, it is her duty to provide for everyone, no?

The colour of their blood be damned.

What should she do?

The princess hasn’t brought any gold out. Today is supposed to be a special day; today marks the first time she has successfully snuck out of the castle. Oh, the looks on Gerda and Kai’s faces when they find out that she is not attending to her studies. How angry might General Matthias be when she shows up late to her archery lessons? Today is supposed to be a time for herself, where she may wander into the lively market, browse through the trinkets that her father and mother would never find interesting. Yet, upon laying eyes on these meticulously crafted items herself, the princess wants nothing more than to purchase everything.

But she hasn’t brought any gold.

How can she help this girl if she cannot buy anything?

Perhaps she could give this girl something she owns? Princess Elsa’s eyes shoot to the bracelet wrapped loosely around her dainty wrist. She isn’t one to wear an excessive amount of jewellery like the other princesses she has met during the banquets hosted by the kingdom, but this one bracelet has always been special to her. The simplicity of the thin, silver chain and the single, dangling sapphire crystal in the shape of a teardrop—her mother has said that it compliments her eyes.

This is all that she has. She does not know how much it is worth, but she prays that it is enough.

Princess Elsa removes her cloak, draping it over the girl. The blood on the girl’s back immediately dyes the white silk in a faded, greenish-blue hue, and the princess fights to tear her eyes away from the horrid sight. She unclips her bracelet and places it into the girl’s opened palm, closing those cold fingers gently.

But this isn’t enough. She knows it isn’t enough.

The girl is bleeding out; she needs proper medical care—she needs a physician to look after her wounds. The princess does not know what the girl has gone through, but she needs to do more.

That’s it. She will return to the castle, request to bring this girl back, and let her be examined by somebody who knows what to do. Vileblood or not, so as long as the princess commands, they will listen. But she must tell them before they inform her father.

“I’ll come back,” the princess grips onto the girl’s icy hand firmly, pouring every ounce of reassurance she can muster. “Please, just hold on. I’ll come back with help. I promise you.”

The girl’s bright eyes remain on her, and although she does not react, the very notion that she watches as Elsa leaves that alleyway ensures the princess that this Vileblood acknowledges her words. 

She will be swift.

The princess dashes through the empty streets, where everyone has seemingly chosen to hide under cover. The rain is relentless; her white-gold hair clings onto her face as she runs. The flats she has barely broken into chafe at her ankles, yet the pain that she feels only serves to remind her how much worse that girl must be experiencing.

At last, she reaches the castle gates. The two gatekeepers watch her intently, and upon her approach, she speaks before they can.

“Inform the castle physician to come with me at once,” the princess attempts to be commanding, but it is difficult as she can barely catch her breath.

“Princess Elsa?” one of the men addresses. “Your Highness, what are you—”

“Fetch both him and myself a horse,” she interrupts, and when they do not act, she stands taller, confident. “At once! And do not tell my father!”

The two men eye each other warily, as if the princess has just told a lie.

But she would never lie. She despises them. She has been raised to always keep her word, keep her promises.

And Princess Elsa has promised that she would return.

“Yes, Your Highness. On your command.” One of the gatekeepers says with a respectful bow—one that her father the king would receive at his approach.

The other gatekeeper, a tall, fair, young man, walks up to her and bows as well. “Princess, may I suggest taking cover from the rain?”

“There is no need,” she answers. Adrenaline pumps rapidly through her veins; she feels all but invigorated, as though she has the strength and endurance to run back to that child. Only, much faster.

Soon, the first gatekeeper returns. He guides the horse towards the princess and gives her the reins.

“Princess Elsa,” the castle physician, mounted on a horse of his own, emerges from the gates. “What has happened? By the gods, you are soaked! Are you not supposed to be in the middle of your lessons?”

“Master Laurence,” she curtsies, as kindly as possible, “I will inform you of everything on the way. For now, please, you must follow me.”

It is perhaps because the princess has never spoken with such command; perhaps it is even because she appears so distinct from how she usually is, but the physician does not hesitate. He nods in earnest. Elsa releases a breath of relief, grateful that a highly respected member of the council is heeding to a twelve-year-old’s command, and they are off.

How does it feel to bleed to death?

How does it feel to lie in a dirty alleyway, alone and helpless?

How does it feel to be lied to?

Princess Elsa will likely never know. Because when she returns to where the girl is supposed to be, she is gone. Any traces of the aqua blood are washed away by the heavy rain.

“A Vileblood, you say?” Master Laurence asks, his deep voice layered with a hint of condescendence. “Princess, that is not possible. They no longer exist. And even if they did,” he walks deeper into the alley, stops right where the girl’s body was and turns to her, “They should be left well alone, for they were the ones who have chosen such a twisted path.”

Nothing.

The princess hears nothing.

All she knows is that she had failed to fulfil a promise.

That night, she dreams of an aqua moon.

Beneath, there lies a fishing hamlet, half sunken. A grey sky, floating corpses of faceless villagers, the stench of rotting fish overwhelms her senses, and she hears a piercing scream.

Princess Elsa wakes up the next morning, blood between her legs.

It is the first time she’s bled.

* * *

In the next five years, when she is not too busy sneaking out of the castle, she spends much of her free time studying the history of the ancient race. Many of the texts describing them are far too spectacular, much too fantastical for the princess to truly believe, yet she cannot rid away the intrigue.

Drinking from the stars that have fallen from the sky? Infusing their children with the blood of the gods? Succumbing to insanity due to the malice coursing their blood?

These facts are akin to the horror stories that she loved reading as a child. There is simply no plausible evidence.

Yet, her history tutors describe with confidence that in the past, under the orders of the royal family, the Arendellian Executioners have bravely ventured north to Cainhurst, destroying every last being who has spawned from its mysterious bloodline. But when the princess delves into the scripts detailing the expeditions, invasions, and the battles pertaining to this particular subject, they, too, are as fantastical as the fairy tales she has once read.

Just glorified stories of how brave the Arendellians were, and how the Vilebloods cowered at the former’s approach.

They are all so nonsensical. The princess wishes for viable facts and evidence, not heroic fairy tales.

Even as she researches on the Executioners, there is no lead. Just as mysterious, the Executioners have long broken ties with the royal family, going their separate ways to establish a new organization. ‘The Assassins’ is what they are now simply addressed as. They reside far along the fjords, and although they are not affiliated with the kingdom, the princess has been told that they will always heed to the ruler of Arendelle’s call.

They are recognizable by their iconic hoods and hidden blades, but Elsa has never once encountered an assassin, either.

All smokes and mirrors.

All but an illusion, including that girl she saw that day.

Princess Elsa revisited that same alleyway, more times than she can remember. In fact, she can proudly proclaim that she has visited so many of these alleys, so many passageways in the kingdom that she herself can construct a more accurate map of Arendelle than any of the cartographers. Still, no matter how talented she is with pointing out directions, the truth in the matter is that she hasn’t encountered that girl.

She has disappeared, as abruptly as her kind did hundreds of years ago.

In spite of this, Princess Elsa is a diligent scholar; she has always been. She thirsts for knowledge, and until she can discover the truth for herself, she has no means to stop—it is in her nature.

And so, once a week, she is granted permission to visit the many libraries and bookstores in town. Her reasoning is that she wants to add to her collection of novels, to which her father easily approves, seeing how studious his daughter is. It helps that Master Laurence and the two gatekeepers never informed the king of what she had done that day.

On her outings, she is accompanied by Lord Alfred, a talkative and well-mannered soldier who has served directly under General Matthias for several decades. He would often await the princess at the entrance—occasionally browsing through the aisles himself—until she is finished with her task. They come to the town on foot because, at the princess’ behest, horses draw attention, and she does not wish to expose her identity.

“Any luck today, Miss Elsa?” Lord Alfred calls as she completes her purchase.

Somehow, being addressed as such rather than the usual ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Princess’ puts her at ease. Elsa smiles at the man, shaking her head. He is trustworthy enough; he is one of the few people who know of the truth, that she is out here to learn more about the history of the mysterious Vilebloods.

“Unfortunately, no. Although, I did find several books that discuss the scenarios in the past where stars have fallen into our oceans. There is also one regarding the story of a moon, tainted in blue.”

“That is most intriguing,” the man strokes his chin. The few grey hairs stand out in particular as his fingers move back and forth. “I will be frank with you, Miss Elsa, I have always been quite fascinated by these stories revolving around their race. It is unfortunate that I cannot read, however.”

“Well, Lord Alfred, if it isn’t too much trouble, once I am able to decipher all these mysteries, mayhap I share some of the knowledge with you?”

“That would be an honour!” he exclaims, voice ecstatic.

The princess smiles widely in response. Lord Alfred courteously opens the door for her as they head out the store, which is when they realize that it is pouring rain.

“Ah, what misfortune,” the man fixes his cap. “The sun was shining so brightly this morning, too.”

Elsa merely heaves a faint sigh. Weather, she has learned, has a mind of its own. It comes and goes, and it isn’t something that a mere human can control. She has also learned to enjoy it while it lasts. The colours of the grey clouds that loom over the kingdom on rainy days; the soft whiteness of falling snow in the winter; the gentle pinkness of cherry blossoms that drift with the wind in spring—all containing a personality of their own.

“My lady, may I suggest waiting here while I return to fetch a carriage? It does not appear to be a squall.”

The princess blinks. “There is no need, Lord Alfred. We may return together. I do not mind a bit of rain.”

“Now, you know I cannot do that, my lady,” he says. “Your father would have me executed if you caught a cold!”

She chuckles, covering her mouth with her slender fingers. “If my father decides to execute you, I will usurp the throne,” the princess says softly, careful to not be too loud despite it being a jest.

Lord Alfred laughs, his deep voice reverberates the space between them. “You would make a fine queen, my lady. But, in any case,” he steps out from the covers of the awning, the rain already drenching his fair blonde hair. “Even if you do not mind the rain, I am certain that ruining the books you have just purchased is the least of your interests, yes?”

Fair point.

“I…” the princess hesitates. “I do not wish to trouble you, Lord Alfred.”

“Nonsense! It is my duty to serve you,” he says.

The princess gives in. “Very well, then. Please, do take care. Try not to push yourself.”

“I may be well into my age, my lady, but I am still much swifter than many of the new soldiers.”

She smiles and watches the man dash towards the direction of the castle. When his figure is obscured by the heavy rain, the princess shifts her attention elsewhere. The smell of rain, the sounds of the gentle _tap-tap-tap_ on the awning above her. The naturalness in her surroundings envelope her in a gentle, delicate atmosphere.

The princess takes the handkerchief from her pocket and dabs at her cheeks. A bit of the moisture is carried to her skin by the breeze. It refreshes her, cools her down, so to speak, especially on a summer afternoon. And, despite being told to stand idly by, she quite enjoys the normalcy. It is a rare opportunity to observe.

The good people of Arendelle running about, their footsteps splashing into the puddles on the road; their struggle to find cover, adults carrying their children through the rain—so, _so_ fascinating.

They come and go; several stop under the same awning to catch their breaths, only to venture out once again, to run to the next cover, and so on.

Until a tiny flash of sapphire strikes her peripherals.

The princess flinches, shuts her eyes for a hint of a second as she is momentarily blinded. And when she searches for the origin of the brilliance, she sees it. Right next to her.

She sees _her_.

Alive.

Fiery, copper, and, thank goodness, healthy hair, tied in two braids. She stands tall, almost at the princess’ height, and she has a slim, beautiful figure despite her conservative outfit. Donning a dark leather cap, the girl’s trench coat and knee-high boots match in sophisticated colours. The crimson half-cape covering her left side that reaches just below her hips compliments her overall attire handsomely.

It brings the princess so much joy that the girl is no longer in rags. Growing up, the girl must have been eating well. She must have found a place she can call her own.

It brings the princess so much joy that she is wearing the bracelet she has given her. It dangles at her gloved wrist, the light of the blue sapphire as dazzling as the princess remembers.

She cannot wipe the smile away. Princess Elsa turns, looking ahead to keep herself from staring, but the slightest movement from the girl puts her on full alert.

Such as, when the girl removes her cap, flinging it dry. When the girl breathes out in exasperation, perhaps because of the rain. When the girl fixes her hair, pushing stray strands behind her ear.

Princess Elsa sees everything, and she is so happy.

Will this girl recognize her if she spoke up? Will it be possible to engage in a normal conversation? Will the princess finally make a friend who isn’t fake like the children from the other kingdoms? Will—

“Oh!”

A gust of wind comes by, the princess tucks the books to her chest, and the handkerchief slips out of her grip. But in that instant, she sees the girl effortlessly catch the handkerchief with one hand, almost as if it is a reflex.

It all happens within a span of a few seconds, but it is spectacular. The action, swift and elegant.

And, just as well, when the girl turns to face her, it is as though the stars in her galaxy have aligned; those teal eyes glow, sparkle, in sync with the droplets of rain that fall around them.

The girl gasps in realization.

She remembers.

Princess Elsa witnesses the phenomenon. How, as the girl breathes in, her shoulders rise slightly. How, as their gaze connects, time stops.

There are no words. There is no need for words. The rapid beating of her heart and the smile they share speak volumes. The princess swears—the girl’s smile is as radiant as the sunlight that slips between the cracks of the clouds, like silver linings. Yes, that is what it is. This girl’s smile is the sunshine; it is the closest Elsa has ever experienced such otherworldly warmth.

Her sun-kissed skin, the freckles, those pink lips, and those kind eyes. Princess Elsa takes everything in. When has she ever come across such beauty? The girl is statuesque, and the princess is stunned.

But the moment ends abruptly.

Lord Alfred returns on a horse-drawn carriage as promised, stopping it directly in front of the princess. On Elsa’s part, because she is still so captivated by the girl, she fails to notice the man’s presence, not until he calls her name.

“Miss Elsa, my apologies for the wait,” he steps off the carriage to open the door for her. “Please, step inside.”

She does not react immediately. Her focus is still on this girl, still attempting to process what has happened, what _is_ happening.

“My lady?”

The princess shakes herself back to her senses. “Ah—yes. I’m sorry, thank you.” She stammers, scrambling into the carriage. In her wake, she chances one more glimpse at the girl before the door behind her shuts. And as the carriage drives away, Princess Elsa looks through the back window. The girl is there, standing still, looking her way.

As much as the princess wants to speak with the girl, as frustrating as it is, the only thing that comes to mind is that she hopes the girl has forgiven her.

However, if she has not, then the princess will surely fulfil that promise someday.

That night, she dreams of the same, aqua moon.

The dim, eerie glow illuminates that very village she’s dreamed of years ago, but now, it is completely sunken. It stands directly under the water that she, for whatever reason, has the ability to stand on. 

Below her, a series of shadows impend the sight. Like a school of fish, they swim underneath her naked feet, loom over the sunken hamlet in the same manner a storm cloud does, and then they arise from where the aquatic moon stands.

In the shape of a gargantuan clam, standing as tall as the moon, thick, blue paste oozes out as something emerges from the cracks.

Princess Elsa cannot react; she stands there, petrified, as the monstrosity of a figure—pure white, faceless, formless—spills out, sheds its placenta, crawls and crawls, until it connects its hollow gaze with the princess.

She jolts awake, drenched in her own sweat. An indescribable ache throbs between her legs, and she itches, she _itches._ From the inside, it writhes and writhes. Desperate, heated, and fervent, she moves a hand down. She does not think twice to thrust into herself, to satisfy the pain.

The princess does this until she screams into her pillow, her other hand clawing at her sheets.

It is the first time she has touched herself in such a sinful way.

* * *

At the ripe age of eighteen, Princess Elsa now has very little time to look into subject she used to be so fully immersed in. Research surrounding blood infusion, cosmic elements, and the supposedly extinct race has steadily diminished, for it is prudent that she readies herself for suitors. It is inevitable. As future monarch, she must prolong the royal bloodline; as queen, having a trustworthy partner to rule alongside her is the optimal thing to do. It is her duty, and she will never question it.

In the upcoming month, she will be meeting several, potential suitors from neighbouring countries. The third prince from the country of Corona, the Duke of Byrgenwerth, the sixteenth prince of the Loviisa, the twelfth prince of the Southern Isles—all of whom are described to be tall, handsome, and intelligent, but the princess wishes to judge them for herself. Whomsoever she chooses will, after all, be her husband, and while she is not one to believe in love at first sight, she certainly hopes to know them personally before the idea of matrimony concedes. In all honesty, she does not care for their appearance nor their talents. So as long as they are loyal to Arendelle, she will be content.

Whatever happens, only time will tell.

She shuts her book—another anthology on the legends of fallen stars. The little time she has before slumber is all that there is to read on her one, genuine interest. While these stories do not entirely relay her the truth about the past, they still mention briefly on what happens to people who come into contact with the celestial elements. Certain tales suggest that they would lose their minds; others hint that they ascend into the heavens, transforming into higher beings. Yet again, no matter the results, they are undeniably ludicrous. 

The princess lies down, pulls the covers over her stomach and closes her eyes. Although the more adventurous side of her continues to long for the truth, an unspoken, pompously mature side of her insists that she should no longer indulge herself in such fantasies. Such is for the naïve, for the dreamer.

And she is neither one of those.

Indeed, she may tell herself to let go of the many, pointless years of study she has poured into a myth, but she may never tell herself to stop dreaming.

Dreams, unlike interests, cannot be controlled.

As such, when she dreams of the reoccurring aqua moon yet again that night, she is in complete surrender.

This time, the monstrous figure no longer crawls; it stands. The grotesque umbilical cord, dripping in deep blue blood, hangs at its navel, dangling, dragging along the water that it, too, has the ability to walk on. And when it is close enough, the cord moves. It binds the princess, wraps around her delicate neck. And she can see it, can feel it.

Its pure white, fish-like skin; its deformed, overtly hunched back; its alien bodily structure, and its hollowed eyes, gaping mouth. All resembling so much of the features belonging to that of a skull. Claws that pin the princess down into the water, keeping her in place.

What frightens her most is that she is not scared. Not one bit. Even if the smell is repulsive, even if the same stench—rotting flesh, dead fish, a plague—makes bile come to her throat, even as she chokes on her own vomit, she does not feel fear.

Rather, she is enraptured.

The pupils wrapped in her blue sphere eyes dilate. Her stomach churns; heat pools at her core, and she spreads her legs, throws her arms above her head.

She submits.

_“Princess.”_

_Don’t._

She bucks her hips. Her centre comes in contact with the creature’s smooth, fish-like skin. It’s so cold, so _hot._

_Not enough._

_“Princess Elsa.”_

_More._

Its claws scrape along her pale skin, leaving shallow slits in their wake. Red oozes out and streams along her curves, dyeing the body of water around them in bright scarlet.

The creature moans.

_Take more—_

“YOUR HIGHNESS!”

She wakes, nearly tumbling off her bed, but she quickly composes herself.

In the dark, her vision fights to adjust, and she finds Gerda, her caretaker, standing next to her.

“What…” the princess croaks, “… Gerda? What is the matter?”

The woman appears apologetic. “Princess, I am sorry for disturbing your sleep, but His Majesty requires your presence, immediately.”

“Father wishes to see me?” Princess Elsa pushes the strands of platinum blonde behind her ears, fixes her braid that hangs on her shoulder. “What is the time?”

“It is two hours to sunrise,” Gerda answers promptly. “Please. Your Highness, we must hurry.”

She is in the process on putting on her shoes. “Gerda, you are scaring me. What has happened?”

Her caretaker heaves a sigh. “It’s Master Laurence,” she starts. “He… he has taken his own life. I do not know the details, but he has left a note that is directed to you. Please, Your Highness, come with me.”

Without a word of protest, the princess follows the woman. They hurry down the halls, the darkness that surrounds them ever so prominent, and Elsa finds herself lightheaded, like she is about to lose consciousness.

Perhaps it is because of the dream? She has, after all, yet to recover from it. The heat radiates between her legs. It throbs, makes her sweat; her heart pounds, and she struggles to catch her breath.

“Your Majesty.” Gerda calls once they enter the king’s study.

Her father sits at his desk, her mother standing closely next to him. Several council members are present as well; General Matthias, Lord Petersen, even Lord Alfred—all of whom merely in their night dresses. When she steps through the threshold of the room, all eyes are on her. As princess, she has been through many occasions where she is the centre of attention. Giving speeches in banquets, attending her father’s council meetings, conversing with other kings and queens is common practice by now. So, she stands her ground, tall and confident.

“Father, you have summoned me?”

The king, clutching onto some sort of parchment in his hands, rises from his seat. “Elsa, come.”

She moves forward. Under the few candles lit in the room, the princess makes out the dark circles underneath her father’s eyes. He has never looked so dishevelled.

“The physician… Master Laurence. He has taken his own life.”

“Yes, Gerda has informed me,” the princess speaks in a calm voice. “Have you found the reason?”

Her father shakes his head. “No. His attendant discovered that he has hung himself in his chambers. There is no suicide note, nor were there traces of murder. However…”

Elsa follows his eyes. They wander from the parchment in his hands to the queen, and then back to her. Confused, she takes another step forward. “Father, if there is something I must know, please do not hesitate.”

The king takes a deep breath. Wordlessly, he hands his daughter the parchment.

She takes it, shoots him a suspicious glance before observing what’s on the paper.

“Elsa,” the king starts.

Her eyes widen.

A drawing. It is a vivid, picturesque drawing of herself lying on her back, exposed, nude. It is treason to depict any member of the royal family in such a way. Yet, she is not disturbed by this. No, what disturbs her is something else.

“My child, you must be honest with me—”

Her father’s voice is muted, distant. Princess Elsa’s attention is on the creature in the drawing. The same, monstrous creature that she just dreamed of; the one that binds her down—the one that makes her centre _throb_. Down to the last detail, it is exactly as it appeared in her dream. Disfigured, malformed, dripping with liquid that, while monochromic in this illustration, was a silky bluish hue found within her dream.

“ _Elsa_.”

She snaps out of her trance. “Father?”

The king sighs. “I asked, has the physician ever approached you… inappropriately?”

Princess Elsa swallows the lump down her throat. Her heart races, be it nervousness or humiliation, she can no longer tell. “No,” she affirms. “The last time I have spoken to him in full was two years ago, when I came down with a mild cold. He merely prescribed me a tonic. I would pass by him in the halls occasionally, but he would always greet me in kind.”

“Are you certain of that?”

She tears her eyes away from the drawing. “Father, I would like to believe that your instinct is to understand that I am not naïve, that I would know if somebody was behaving improperly towards me.” The parchment in her hands is scrunched up as her grip tightens. “Is it truly necessary to question me of such a topic in front of your council members? Do you wish to bring shame upon your own daughter?”

“Elsa.” Her mother calls, her voice harsh and scolding. 

But the king stops his wife, raising a hand. “It is fine, my dear,” he says. “You are right, Elsa. It is my fault for bringing you this unwanted attention. I apologize. Please, forgive me.”

Not much is there left to be addressed for the rest of the night. Her father seems to be in a rush to dismiss everyone; he urges her to return to her chamber and get a good night’s rest. He claims that he will provide her with the details the next morning, but the princess thinks that her father is being over-protective, which, in her opinion, is utterly ridiculous. She is fully grown, seen as an admirable member of the royal bloodline by the citizens of Arendelle, and she is much respected by the staff of the castle. For her age, she has accomplished more than any of the previous crown princes or princesses in their time. And this includes her own father.

By the time she is escorted back to her chambers by Gerda, dawn has broken.

The sky is tainted in soft violets, pinks, and yellows. Her balcony faces east, and so quite often, when she rises early enough, she has the luxury of witnessing the sunrise.

It is unfortunate, however, that on this fine, summer morning, there is a bit of drizzle.

It would have been nice to step out to breathe in the morning air. Princess Elsa walks up to the glass doors, resting a palm there as she stares out, beyond the horizon.

She is in need of sleep, but she is restless. She is afraid to close her eyes because she is scared. Master Laurence’s drawing, the reoccurring dream—each time increasingly vivid—it is at last getting to her. The fact that they are so real, that they make her feel so… strange.

That they make her _yearn for more_.

It’s unsettling, to say the least. Princess Elsa wraps her arms around her stomach. A fruitless gesture, yes, but it calms her, nonetheless.

“You mustn’t let your guard down, Your Highness.”

Elsa jumps. She spins around, turning to the feminine voice. “Who’s there?”

A figure—petite, no taller than herself—stands casually at the other end of the room. She leans against the door, reaches behind herself to lock it without looking, and walks forward. Slowly, the light of the sun shines upon her. The person wears a hood, her attire is dark, intimidating; her left wrist dangles with a familiar blue crystal, and then the princess realizes.

“You…”

Her presence is highlighted by the natural sunlight, yet when she removes her hood, the princess thinks this girl is much brighter than any star in the universe. 

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” The girl says with a beaming smile—the same one she has blessed the princess with at that bookstore, one year ago.

A burst of warmth. Elsa’s heart flutters. Her breath hitches, and in that moment, the feelings of shock and happiness simultaneously crash upon her. It happens with such abruptness, she cannot find the words to move, let alone respond. Shock, because she does not know who this person is. But mostly happiness, because she is so glad, _so glad._

It has only been a short while since that fateful day, but the girl has matured so much. Freckled cheeks, beautiful teal eyes, a womanly figure underneath her outfit. She ties her hair up in a single bun, pinned elegantly behind her head.

“I…” the princess hears herself say.

The girl tilts her head, confused.

Elsa tries again. “I’ve searched for you.”

“I know,” the redhead chuckles. “As have I.” She raises her hand, the one that has the princess’ bracelet around it. “If you had told me that you are the crown princess of Arendelle, it would have been so much easier.”

She cannot help it. Elsa hides her laugh behind a hand. “My apologies,” she says. “Your appearance on that day was much too shocking. I could not exactly gather my thoughts to speak to you.”

“Oh?” The girl purses her lips, tapping her chin curiously with a finger, as if deep in thought. “Was I too dashing?”

A blush spreads up the princess cheeks. She prays that the girl cannot see. “Y-you jest.”

It is the girl’s turn to laugh. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

When Elsa stops pouting to look to the girl, their laughter is in sync. It is comfortable. Safe.

“Princess Elsa,” the girl says when they quiet down.

“Yes?”

She comes close, teal orbs gleaming with such intensity it makes the princess aware of her own breathing. The girl does not break eye contact as she takes Elsa’s hand, and then she bends her knee, lowering her head to let it touch their joined hands.

The princess stills, surprised by this girl’s knightly gesture.

“It is my duty to protect the royal family,” she says softly.

At that, Elsa’s eyes widen.

“And I will rid everything and anything that comes to harm you,” the girl pauses to look up. “May it be a member of the council, a demon, a god; I will not hesitate.”

The princess wraps her mind around those words. They are so weighted, filled with so much gravity, she does not understand. Why would a child bear such an arduous task? Why must this child walk such a dangerous path? Why—

“Tell me,” Elsa speaks, “… assassin,”

The girl does not flinch.

“What is your name?”

“Anna,” comes the immediate response. “My name is Anna.”

_Anna._

Princess Elsa lets the sound of her name repeat in her head. She lets it ring gently, like the chimes in the wind, and then she goes on, “Assassin Anna,”

“Your Highness?”

The girl’s voice is soothing, calm, beautiful. Elsa decides that she likes it.

“Master Laurence’s death. Was that your doing?”

“Yes, princess,” Anna says, yet again without hesitation. “I will rid everything that brings harm to you.”

No words, no sound. Simply the light tapping of the rain outside, hitting against the glass doors. Elsa breathes out, oddly feeling relieved when she does so.

“I see,” she says, gripping onto the assassin’s hand. “Would that include your own kind?”

A strange phenomenon then happens. The corners of Anna’s lips arch upwards—menacingly so.

“Your Highness,” she whispers, “I did say: may it be a member of the council, a demon, or a god. There is no reason that I will not slay a Vileblood.”

Hearing that, Princess Elsa returns the smile.

“Very well.”

When she finally gets the opportunity to rest that day, she dreams of an aqua moon.

The same creature appears, but it does not move this time. It merely sinks back down into the underwater village.

Princess Elsa wakes up rejuvenated, invigorated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I’ve left you at “this is some weird shit” or simply “wtf” then I think i’m doing the right thing xD
> 
> Anna's outfits are inspired by what Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower (Bloodborne) and Evie Frye (Assassin's Creed: Syndicate) wear.


	2. like the blazing sun

Master Laurence does not have family, and therefore it is unnecessary for the royals to fabricate the details of his death. A simple story of him succumbing to sickness or old age—it matters not—shall be sufficient. A man of the council committing high treason does not deserve the honour of a proper burial. The king informs his daughter that such an important task will be dealt with utmost care; save the knowing members of the council, no one else will learn of the shameless secret that the physician holds. He also instructs her to not pay too much attention to this trivial matter, for she has a far more important task to handle—that is, to prepare herself for her suitors who will be arriving soon.

Princess Elsa trusts her father, no doubt, but her upbringing has conditioned her to be vigilant. If the issue relates to herself, she wishes to handle it on her own. After all, it is beyond frightening to know how that man, so proficient and respected in his field, acquired the knowledge to replicate her dream. A dream she has never once shared with anybody. How was he able to recreate that ghastly creature so flawlessly? The sheer resemblance seen in that parchment is much too uncanny, and it does not sit well with the princess. She fails to see how her father, with his limited understanding of the situation, will be able to discover the truth behind Master Laurence’s practices.

“King Agnarr will know from my master himself,” says the assassin. “There is no reason to put yourself in harm’s way, Princess Elsa.”

The princess’s grip on the new parchment tightens, yet her eyes gaze on ahead, at the glimmering reflections of the evening sunlight upon the ocean waters over the balcony of her chambers. She glances down at the illustration one more time.

Dark, aggressive strokes of black ink. Garish, meticulous work. A harrowing yet beautiful, horrific yet picturesque, disgusting yet alluring sight.

The assassin has informed her that Master Laurence’s room is littered with the illustration of this creature, how each parchment contains different forms, sizes, and angles of that horrid creature. And this one right now—one that is retrieved by the assassin—it is exactly as the princess remembers from her dream this morning: the details of its dripping placenta, the reflections of the moonlight upon its skin, and its skeletal features. It is as though her dream is crawling into her reality. 

Elsa knows, there should be consolation in the fact that the Assassin’s Guild—descendants of the Arendellian Executioners—is getting involved. But said knowledge brings about yet another problem; if this situation is able to stir the assassins, then quite naturally, it would mean that the issue concerns the entire kingdom.

“If what you have told me about Master Laurence is true,” she eventually answers. “Then I wish to see.” Her voice trembles as her heart burns. Bile crawls up her throat and the princess wants so desperately to vomit. Flashes of that monstrosity—its cold touch, its hollowed eyes—she remembers everything, all too vivid for her mind to bear. But she steels herself. She turns, facing the assassin. “I need to know for myself.”

The expression on the girl does not change. It is a straight, unwavering look—one of confidence and unparalleled conviction. Princess Elsa finds bewilderment in the idea that this individual, a skilled fighter and, above all else, a killer, appears so innocent. She is but a girl of the same age, yet, by happenstance, she walks such a different path.

Princess Elsa cannot help but to wonder, how would it have played out had she saved her that day?

“If that is your wish,” the assassin suddenly says, breaking the princess out of her trance. Then, she retreats into the darkness of the room, only traces of her teal eyes remain as she blends into the shadows. “The docks,” she says, “Please come alone at midnight. I will be there.”

And she is gone.

* * *

Sneaking out of the castle has long become second nature; Princess Elsa has long memorized the guards’ shift, the abandoned passageways, and everything that any typical, rebellious teenager should know. That is, if they are of the royal family. She dresses in unrestricting clothes, opting for boots rather than heels, trousers rather than a dress, and a cloak to mask her overall appearance. She cannot risk being recognized—not tonight.

She looks to the sky and fails to find the North Star, nor can she find the Big Dipper. The clouds are too thick, the light of the moon can barely peek through, but the princess knows that she has come out a bit earlier than expected. As such, she uses the time to observe.

The boats on the docks, the calm waters, the quiet streets of Arendelle.

It is a serene, wholly peaceful atmosphere, yet, why does she feel so anxious? Even as she was coming out from the castle, her heart clenches. In fact, she has felt this way since the assassin left. Even throughout dinner, she could not stomach more than a few bites. Princess Elsa excused herself from the king and queen promptly, stating that she simply had no appetite following the events of the previous night. 

All but a lie.

In truth, she hungers. She wants to _eat._ Yet, her stomach lurches.

“Your Highness,” calls a familiar voice from the shadows.

The princess turns to her. “Assassin.”

She emerges. Though shrouded in darkness, the moonlight gleams radiantly on the leather of the assassin’s outfit. “I must admit, princess, you certainly surprise me.”

“Surprise you?” Princess Elsa tilts her head, curious. “In what way?”

“Forgive me for being blunt,” the assassin says with a smile. “I had always imagined the Princess of Arendelle to be donned in beautiful gowns, so I am quite taken aback by your rather knightly appearance.”

There is a hint of amusement in the girl’s words, and for that reason, Elsa herself smiles along. “On the occasion, I do enjoy horseback archery. I have worn far more masculine outfits than this.”

The assassin’s smile prolongs, widening, and Elsa finds the sight to be endearing.

“Well, if I may,” she says, “you are as handsome in these clothes as you are beautiful in the dress you wore this morning.”

The princess hitches a breath. Her father, mother, noblemen, the citizens she has met—they have all praised her for her beauty; she should be accustomed to it by now, but why is it that when the assassin tells her as such, the feeling is different? The thought, so trivial and superfluous, occupies her mind like a fluttering butterfly upon the royal courtyard—beautiful, yet distracting.

“E-enough.” She clears her throat, praying that the night may conceal the flush on her cheeks.

The assassin bows. “My apologies.” She says, but the smile is audible in her words. When she raises her head, their eyes connect. Deep blue and light teal—the sky and the ocean. Slowly, without breaking this delicate connection, the assassin approaches. A mere arm’s length apart, she speaks up again, much more quietly this time, “Princess, I must ask you one more time.”

Elsa stiffens.

“Are you certain you wish to see? As I have said, King Agnarr will be informed of this situation by my master, and so there is no reason for you to do this.”

She doesn’t turn away. Princess Elsa stays still, staring deep into the assassin’s gaze. Under the moon, the blue-green pigments swirl into a cold silver. The darkened specks that surround her pupils glimmer, and it is in this where she finds the courage to answer.

“And I will answer you the same,” she says. “Yes, Assassin Anna. I wish to know the truth.”

The girl heaves a sigh. She takes a deep breath, “It will be unpleasant. Disturbing, even.”

The princess searches. The invisible tether linking their eyes together intensifies, and she searches. She searches and searches, for a hint of doubt, a sign of insecurity, but all that the assassin exudes is fearlessness. Her poise is as sound as the princess’ own resolve.

“I am not turning back.”

Much like those who serve her father, the assassin does not hesitate with her response. “I understand,” she says. “Then, Princess Elsa, I ask of you to follow my instructions.”

She listens.

“Under no circumstances may you leave my side. Please, stay close to me.”

Elsa nods.

“Do not worry, I will keep you safe,” she says with another smile, one that is as confident as it is radiant. “Now, come with me.”

The princess finds strangeness in the fact that she is so willingly following someone she barely knows. But she believes that it is even stranger that in doing so, the anxiety that has formerly overwhelmed her has receded.

* * *

They do not walk in the streets of Arendelle, for reasons that the princess knows are rather conspicuous. Despite the late hour, it is still suspicious to have two girls clad in hooded cloaks walking about. And so, the assassin has opted for them to move along the docks, right by the ocean, where all they hear are the soft splashes of water along with the clattering of the wooden boats. The smell, however, is much more prominent. It is sickening.

The salted sea, moss, decaying wood, and fish.

It is exactly the stench of that half-sunken fishing hamlet. Flashes of the dream invade her mind, crawling upon her sight. Arendelle, _the hamlet,_ Arendelle, _flood,_ Arendelle, _the monster, with its dripping blue blood—_

“Princess?”

The assassin’s hand on her shoulder, Elsa is able to breathe once more.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I…” the princess starts, “… it’s just—the dream, I’m…” she pauses, wondering if her words mean anything to the assassin.

“Dream?”

Why, of course they do not.

“Nothing,” she shakes her head. “Let us continue.”

The assassin nods. “Just a bit more.”

They come across steps that go through several alleyways, all of which the princess is familiar with. She has spent much of her earlier days traversing through these hidden paths in search for a certain girl. How ironic it is that the person she has searched for is right here, guiding her, in vow of protecting her? Certainly, she could never have imagined the wheel of fate to spin in such an unpredictable way.

“Wait.” The assassin whispers, keeping her back against the stone wall.

She does as told, backing up to hide behind the shorter girl. Up this close, the princess discovers that the assassin smells of something distinct—it is not the usual, floral, feminine perfumes that she herself wears; it is of incense, an aromatic fragrance that reminds her of the woodlands, of soothing waterfalls, and it is undeniably alluring.

“Princess Elsa,” the assassin calls softly. She looks out towards the street, and Elsa follows her gaze, drawing her attention on a mysterious figure. “That person,” Anna says, “we will follow her.”

This person is headed towards the main town square, a well-populated area of the kingdom by day.

“Where will she lead us to?”

Once the mysterious figure has gone far enough, the assassin emerges from the alley. “The church,” she answers. “Quickly.”

Elsa clutches a hand at her chest, it is then she realizes how heavily her heart is pounding. Fear and anxiety wash upon her, all at once. What can possibly come from believers of the Great Ones? The royal family—the princess herself—pays great respect towards the gods, for they have blessed the kingdom with peace and prosperity for hundreds of years. It is strictly nonsensical for a devout of the church to condone in any form of malpractice—certainly not to the degree of what Master Laurence has done.

Wordlessly, she trails behind the assassin. They pass by the Arendellian flag in the middle of the square, where it stands flying in the gentle night breeze. Hiding behind a smaller storefront, the two watch the person pause at the entrance of the cathedral. A grand structure, it stands mighty, perhaps even more magnificently than the Arendellian castle itself. Sharp window arches, thick, cemented walls—a sky-high work of architecture that represents the gods.

Why, it must. For only the gods are above the royals. When the time comes, the archbishop will be the one to bestow the crown atop Princess Elsa’s head.

As such, how can a place that embodies holiness, purity, and virtue, house cultists?

The cathedral itself is dark, no light from within. Like any other structures in the kingdom at night, its services should not be available at this hour, no? Yet, just as the thought comes upon the princess, the lofty doors of the structure open. A low, creaking sound, and the figure in waiting slips into the unlit building, the doors slamming shut behind her.

“Princess,” the assassin calls in a whisper. She tilts her head towards a direction, and then she mouths, “This way.”

Princess Elsa, for one, is extremely glad that she has chosen to wear clothes that she can easily maneuver in, for she did not foresee that she would do something as taxing as climbing over the church garden gates. The assassin watches her intently, offering to help. In spite of her feeble stature, however, Elsa is quite athletic and therefore has every ability to do this on her own. The iron fences are well over her height, but Elsa is adamant. Once she is on the other side, the princess catches a glimpse of a smile from the other girl. Before she can stop to revel in the charming sight, however, Anna has already vaulted herself over with ease, landing rather elegantly beside the princess.

“You… make it look so easy,” Elsa says, impressed.

The assassin grins. “Takes years of practice, Your Highness.”

The smile is infectious. The princess feels her lips arching upwards.

“Come with me. We can enter from the cellar in the back.”

Elsa follows along without further question. While she has been in the cathedral several times, she has never once set foot upon the gardens. Under different circumstances, the princess may stop to admire the well-maintained shrubs that surround the area. Designed intricately, they are laid out to create pathways that resemble a labyrinth. Such a shame that this beautiful design is marred by the eerie impression she holds towards this place.

With the assassin’s guidance, the two find their way to the back of the structure, where a cellar, as promised, stands. The handles are chained, held together by a single, metal lock.

Anna does not hesitate; under her sleeve, a sharp click is heard, whereupon a hidden knife unsheathes from her wrist. In one smooth motion, she plunges the knife into the bolt, and the lock falls loose.

Princess Elsa watches how the entire picture plays out. The assassin is swift and, most importantly, quiet. She removes the chain slowly to prevent the loud clanging noises. With care, she places it onto the grass next to the cellar. Though the doors appear heavy, the shorter girl pulls them open without difficulty. Everything about the assassin is so practiced, so perfect. Quite a sight to behold, if the princess were being honest, for a mere girl to accomplish such arduous tasks.

Undoubtedly, she would continue to admire what other wonderful feats this girl is capable of, but her attention is drawn elsewhere when she hears a sound—one that resembles a foreign incantation, yet the princess cannot pick up the words—hums from within the structure. It brings about the most unsettling sensation, perhaps one that rivals the feeling she has gotten from seeing Master Laurence’s illustration.

“Remember,” the assassin steps into the dark space, “stay close to me.”

Princess Elsa gives her one more nod, and then she sets a foot into the cellar.

* * *

It is stale and musty. It smells of iron and wax. The walls are mounted with candles, yet the darkness overpowers the weak flickering of the flames. Though the princess is no nyctophobic, the fear that creeps into her skin is haunting. She stays as close to Anna as possible, because the girl is all she has to hold onto for safety, for some semblance of return. The confined passageway is a tunnel of sorts, and so there is only a single route they may follow, yet why is it that the further along they move, the more disoriented Elsa feels? And the sound—the chanting, it is exceedingly irritating, almost maddening. 

“What is this language?” the princess asks in a low whisper.

“Language?”

“The chanting,” she continues. “I do not recognize the words that these people are saying.”

The assassin stops. She turns, staring at the princess in wonder. “There are no words, Your Highness. All I hear is humming.”

She breathes in, blue eyes widening. Elsa sees the assassin observing her carefully, like she is made of delicate glass.

“Princess, your safety is my priority,” comes the inevitable concern. “Perhaps we should come another time, after all?”

 _No,_ she wants to answer. She refuses. Elsa wants to know. She thirsts for the knowledge. Simply knowing can satisfy her—can satiate this unspeakable desire. The princess wants to answer the assassin, desperately so, but there are no words. Her ability to speak has been robbed; the sounds of the incantation echo loudly in her head. Louder, _louder._ And the chanting—it becomes faster. The sound is uncompromising; it makes her ears ring. _So loud._ A pounding like drums. It feels as though her ears are bleeding.

Closer.

Pain drills into her head.

Louder.

A forceful pounding. Flashes of white _._ She cannot… can’t breathe—

_(spread)_

Her chest heaves.

_(submit)_

It burns.

“Princess.”

_(breed)_

“Your Highness.”

Her centre _throbs—_

_(Kos)_

—a hand grabs onto her wrist. The pain in her head remains, but she is no longer seeing white. Rather, she sees a clear, crystal teal. And she is so glad, _so glad._ Elsa gasps for air, and only then does she realize that she is sitting on the floor, her back against the brick walls.

“We should turn back—”

“No,” Elsa cuts her off. “No. We will continue.”

“But, Princess—”

“I have to know,” she fights with a trembling voice. The numbness between her legs pulsates, heat spreads to her cheeks, but she bites her lip to distract herself. “Please, Anna. I have to know why it’s doing this to me.”

A small pause, and then the assassin sighs. Gently, she helps Elsa stand. “Alright,” she says. “But we are leaving immediately if it becomes too much.”

Elsa smiles. Somehow, the assassin’s touch calms her. The previous sensations are dulled; the sounds, the burning, it still hurts, but the princess feels that it is no longer unbearable.

And so, she grips onto Anna’s hand.

The girl, as if having heard Elsa’s thoughts, softens. She responds in earnest, holding onto the princess and returns the smile with one of her own.

“I’ll protect you.” She says firmly.

The light in the young assassin’s eyes translates into a confidence that Elsa can very much feel. Maintaining her smile, the princess answers in a soft voice, “I know.”

Anna brings the princess’ hand up to the height of their chests. The silver bracelet with its dangling, teardrop-shaped sapphire catches Elsa’s attention briefly.

“Follow closely.”

They continue along the tunnel, and as they progress, the sounds become much more prominent; though the language of the chant is not native to the Arendellian tongue, the words, much like moments before, are starting to make sense. Spread. Submit. Breed. Repeat, repeat. They are words that do not mean anything on their own, but they have some sort of ability to break the princess’ composure. Elsa feels that if she so much as releases the assassin’s hand, she will likely lose herself.

There is a dim, ominous light at the end of the tunnel. It is a deep, harsh orange, like a dying sunset, and the smell— _by the gods—_ the stench is of blood. Princess Elsa wants to vomit the moment it reaches her nose.

But they are almost there. She’s almost there.

Her grip on the assassin’s hand tightens. She clenches her eyes shut once they are at the end.

“It’ll be okay,” the girl’s whisper reaches her ears. “I’m here.”

Her breath hitches. Yes, all she has to do is listen to the voice. Feel Anna’s warmth. It’s enough.

She forces her eyes open, but the moment she does, she becomes stunned, shocked, _appalled._

Cloaked figures, not unlike the person they saw enter the cathedral from earlier, surround a large, bronze statue in a circle. There are at least twenty of them, and they are on their knees, arms above their heads, bowing, bowing, bowing. Again and again, they do so with fervour, with an unrelenting fixation, an obsession. The princess moves closer and realizes that the pounding she has heard earlier is the sound of these zealots bashing their heads onto the cemented floor. At each bow, their foreheads come in contact with the ground.

_thump_

_thump_

_thump_

The blood, therefore, is from their opened wounds. They are kneeling in their own pools of blood. Even as their heads are cracked open, even as fluids ooze out from their skulls, they continue their prayer, their worship. Deep red liquid, almost appearing black, stream from these moving bodies to the princess’ feet. She brings a hand up to her mouth, covering it as an attempt to stop herself from screaming.

No, she must not make a noise.

She wants to know. She needs to.

What has driven these people into such frenzy? Why are they hurting themselves so?

She tries once more, forcing herself to look. But when she does, she almost wishes that she had not. Because she sees it now. She recognizes it. The idol these cultists are worshipping, what they are bowing to, is… it’s—

_(KOS)_

The creature in her dreams. The one that has been making her body ache in places unimaginable. In places far too sinful to be spoken aloud. Princess Elsa still remembers how its cold, wet umbilical cord bound her down, made her spread her legs for it. How her centre throbbed painfully for its touch. Gods above, it was an abhorrent sensation, but she would do anything to feel it.

_(breed)_

“ _Yes_ ,” the words come on their own.

Anna jolts, turning to her in surprise. “Princess?”

She is captivated, utterly absorbed by the idol statue. Desire burns from within—one that seethes in her skeleton, makes her blood boil, and all she knows is that she needs to give herself to it. Let it touch her. She needs it. Needs it. NEEDS IT—

( _Submit_ )

“ _I will.”_ Elsa flings away whatever is gripping onto her wrist.

“No!”

_(A hindrance. A mere parasite.)_

It grabs on. It doesn’t let go. It stops her.

“Your Highness—”

If it won’t let go, ( _then tear off your arm_. _Tear off YOUR arm_.)

It hurts.

_(don’t let anything stop you)_

But her arm won’t come off. Why won’t it come off? Detach it from her body.

( _yes)_

Bleed.

_(spill your blood for me)_

“Elsa!”

_(don’t listen)_

… what?

“Come back!”

_(filthy VILEBLOOD)_

… who—

_“ELSA!”_

She blinks. Vision blurred, she cannot make out anything more than yet another blinding white light. But she knows the smell. Woodlands and waterfalls. It’s soothing, so unlike the smell of blood. Princess Elsa inhales deeply.

Warmth.

She rests her head upon something firm, grounded. Something holds her tight. An embrace.

“Anna…”

Her legs give out, and she sees black.

* * *

“—could’ve killed her…”

An unfamiliar voice.

“… always so reckless…”

A man?

“… I know.”

Another voice. It’s… Anna?

“What were you thinking?!”

Princess Elsa awakens. At a glance, she sees that she is in some sort of cabin. A modest, comfortable room that is mostly decorated in wood and simple furniture. Light does not pour from the windows, and so the princess deduces that dawn has yet to be broken. She sits up, but then a sharp pain from her shoulder shoots to the rest of her body; she bites her bottom lip to suppress a hiss.

“Anna—no, come back. Listen to me,” comes the male’s voice. The tone of it leads the princess to believe that the speaker is quite young. “Master has already told us what he will do. There was absolutely no reason for you to go out of your way to take a risk like that.”

“But she has the right to know,” argues Anna weakly.

“At the cost of her life? She’s the crown princess of Arendelle! The future queen!”

 _No,_ don’t… it’s not her fault.

She rises from the bed, nearly tumbles over as she stands—from her spinning head, but manages to find enough balance to push herself through the door. “S-stop…” she croaks.

“Princess!”

A pair of arms catch her just as she falls, and when she raises her head, she sees the lustre of beautiful blue-green orbs. For a brief moment, Elsa gives Anna a smile, but then she quickly composes herself to face the young man—no—a boy, who stands much taller, has blonde hair and hazel eyes, and is likely her and Anna’s age. He dresses in a similar fashion to Anna; Elsa believes him to be a colleague to her—also an assassin. Were they in dispute over her safety?

“It is not her fault,” Elsa begins, standing tall despite the burn radiating through her body. “I asked for her to show me—I commanded it. She could not have refused.”

“Your Highness…”

Elsa raises a hand, stopping the girl. “I take full responsibility for my actions. Anna was but following orders. If I must, I will be the one to explain everything to father.”

Silence fills the space. The male is rendered speechless, dumbfounded. Then, respectfully, he lowers his head, avoiding the princess’ stern gaze.

“Please forgive me, Your Highness,” he speaks softly. “I… I understand. I was concerned for your safety. We assassins are supposed to protect you, and—”

“And Anna has performed above and beyond. There is, as such, nothing to worry about.”

The male’s jaw hangs loose, as if he has a response, but he bows again, thinking better than to talk back to the Princess of Arendelle. “Yes, Your Highness,” he says. “E-excuse me.”

She watches intently, never allowing her cautious gaze to leave his back, not until he leaves the room.

“Princess Elsa.” Anna calls to her gently.

She turns, filled with the hope that she has not gone overboard, that her behaviour has not frightened the girl in the slightest. And thank goodness that Anna’s gaze is soft, relaxed. The corners of her thin lips arch upwards, and Elsa thinks that she has never seen a kinder expression.

“Thank you for coming to my aid,” she says. “But I have to agree with Kristoff—I was behaving far too recklessly.”

“Is that the gentleman’s name?” Elsa asks. She gets a nod from the assassin, and the princess pauses to assess the situation. “I must apologize. He… he must be a friend of yours. I was rather harsh on him, wasn’t I?”

“Do not worry,” Anna’s chuckles lightly. “He can take it. We disagree with each other much too often. Everyone always takes my side, though, so this is nothing new.”

The princess breathes out with amusement. “Oh?”

“Even the master of the guild favours me over him. Well,” she scratches a cheek with a finger—a charming gesture, “I am the more talented disciple, after all.”

The laugh that follows is involuntary. Princess Elsa moves a hand up to cover her mouth out of habit, but the sudden movement sends yet another sharp pain through her body. It aches from her shoulder, spreading like wildfire, and she bares her teeth to fight the discomfort.

“Your Highness,” the girl’s soft voice rings in her ears.

Elsa winces and tries her best to smile.

But Anna sees right through her. “Please, come with me,” she says, guiding the princess back to the room that she emerged from.

She does not utter another word. Simply speaking brings her pain, and so she opts to remain quiet. Anna gestures at the bed, and the princess understands that she is being asked to sit down. She does so promptly whilst keeping her eyes on the young assassin. A most intriguing sight. Anna’s hood is down, the candlelight flickering on the nightstand highlights the shine in her red hair, and the princess is reminded once more how beautiful this girl truly is.

“Does it hurt?”

The princess sighs, shaking her head. “Only when I try to move it.”

“It appears that it has been dislocated.”

“Ah.”

At that, the assassin quirks a brow.

Elsa sees the curious expression, so she tilts her head in wonder.

A small smile forms upon Anna’s lips. “You continue to surprise me, Princess.”

“Might I ask,” Elsa smiles in kind, “Whatever have I done this time?”

“Nothing,” when Anna speaks, her eyes sparkle, complimenting that smile of hers. “Well, if I were to be honest, I guess it’s the fact that your injury does not seem to deter you.”

She blinks. “You mean my dislocated shoulder?”

A nod.

“Oh, I—” the princess begins, “I’ve fallen off my horse a few times. A dislocated shoulder is nothing new.”

“Why, of course,” Anna laughs. “Though, I am quite certain that you do not wish for it to remain dislocated?”

“No, I do not.”

She hums. “Please, lie down. I think I can help you with that.”

Elsa does as she is told, resting her head upon the cotton pillow. It smells of the familiar incense that the assassin carries. Could this possibly be Anna’s bed?

“This will hurt just a bit. Please bear with me, princess.”

It truly is nothing new. She closes her eyes and relaxes. When she was much younger, her father used to take her riding. Her horse at that time was an anxious one; he would get startled by the slightest movements in the woods. Once, he flung the princess off his back when a squirrel came across their path. Just two years earlier as well, she accompanied her father on one of his hunting expeditions. She managed to hit a soaring eagle while riding, yet she failed to rebalance herself upon sheathing the bow. Yet another accident.

And so, even as the assassin eases her arm, moving it delicately in an up and down motion, she does not wince. She knows very well what comes next. It is absolutely her least favourite part, but it is necessary, nonetheless. The princess takes a deep breath in preparation; in a sudden move, Anna angles the arm higher, far above her head, making a loud _pop_ sound _,_ and then she exhales with relief.

“Are you alright?”

Elsa opens her eyes. Sitting up, she now faces the assassin directly, smiling. Anna, just as so, smiles back. She presses on her shoulder with a hand, massaging the area to loosen the tension. In the past, Master Laurence was the one to mend her shoulder.

She could laugh.

Master Laurence, the man who started all of this. What unbidden irony.

Master Laurence, who tried to…

“When you took his life,” Elsa’s throat itches when she speaks, but her tone becomes serious. “He… he was in my chambers.”

Anna hesitates. She has not shown any signs of such, not towards the princess so far. This is the first instance. “… That is correct.” She eventually answers.

“What was he doing there?”

Another pause, another instance of silence. Anna is visibly distraught. She tugs at her lower lip. “I do not believe it is appropriate for me to tell you, Princess.”

“A simple yes or no would suffice,” Elsa says. She looks straight into Anna’s eyes and continues with conviction. “So tell me,”

Anna’s jaw flexes.

“Was he touching me?”

She looks away.

Elsa tries again. “He… did he try to rape me?”

Immediately, the young assassin lowers her head, backs up, and bends down on a knee as if she has insulted the princess. A curious gesture, Elsa would argue, for this girl has done nothing but remained loyal. Even her expression is contrite, apologetic.

She clenches at her jaw, brings her arms together, crossing them so that she may hold onto her elbows.

“I’m sorry, Princess, it must be too much—”

“No, no… I…” she pauses, looks into the darkness of the night through the window. Nothing but pure black. Much like the colour of the blood that streamed from those bodies. Echoes of their pounding, cracks of their skull, the splat of flesh—she still remembers.

But above all else, she remembers being possessed. A feeling not unlike the one in her dreams, when she gave herself in surrender, when she submitted herself to the creature.

“There was a moment,” she whispers, unsure whether she is speaking to herself or to the assassin. It matters not. “The voices that I heard, they beckoned me towards the idol. It’s…” she swallows, “… it asked of me t-to—”

_(breed)_

She bites her lip. Clenches her eyes shut. Her heart races, it is a heavy discomfort that weighs down her chest. It makes breathing difficult. But when Anna’s hand, so warm and tender, touches hers, her body is no longer stiff. She looks down towards the girl, and something sparks—a distant feeling of hope and nostalgia. Strange; the two have known each other for only a short while, but Elsa’s memories of this girl in that alley, six years ago—beaten, bloodied—and of her standing outside the bookstore last year—prim, proper—they all bring her a sense of longing. The very presence of Anna makes Elsa feel as if she were living in normalcy and, more simply, safety. It has indeed been a short while, but an undeniable bond has already been established.

Very peculiar, for Anna is a Vileblood. A supposed abomination and, by default, an enemy declared by the people. Yet, she is here, as Princess Elsa’s protector, as her anchor.

“Stand, assassin.”

“I have no right.”

Elsa breathes out. She walks forward, stopping right in front of the girl. “Then, at the very least, look at me.”

Anna does as she is told this time.

Once again, there is reassurance at the mere connection of their gaze. Princess Elsa softens her posture. She gives the assassin her hand, which the latter takes without question.

“What will happen from here?” Elsa’s voice is as gentle as her question.

Anna’s thumb caresses the princess’ fingers, to which Elsa believes to be involuntary. “By now, every one of those cultists should be dead. Once your father learns of the news, the archbishop—the church—will be informed.” Her grip on Elsa’s hand strengthens, like she does not want to let go. “What happens from there is no longer up to the assassins.”

What comes next is unrestraint; it is natural, from the bottom of her heart—“Whatever is to happen, I want you by my side.”

The assassin raises her head, staring curiously at the princess. “You still wish for my protection?”

“Why would I not?”

“I…” Anna’s voice trails off. Her eyes dart around, searching for the appropriate words. “I’ve brought you to a cult. I nearly had you killed. You… you should have me executed for endangering your life.”

She cannot help it but to smile. “But I’m alive now, am I not?”

“Yes, but…”

The princess sees, Anna is casting for excuses, for reasons to blame herself, because she is overwhelmed with guilt, after all. But none of this matters; Princess Elsa has made up her mind.

“I trust you,” she says simply. “I trust only you.”

Anna looks bewildered, almost confused when those words leave the princess’ lips. Teal eyes sparkle like crystals under the dim candlelight. The assassin wavers before speaking again, this time much more quietly.

“Princess Elsa, why trust me? Why trust a Vileblood?”

“I do not understand how my knowledge of your bloodline would alter my trust towards you.”

“I—” the assassin tries. But nothing comes. She is out of excuses.

Elsa holds Anna’s hand in both of hers, cradling its warmth in a delicate strength. Her gaze softens, prompting the assassin to do the same.

“I could give you countless reasons. I could say that it is because you have the blood of the gods coursing through your veins, Anna.” She says, “And for this reason, I would be a fool to not have you by my side. I could tell you that you have done a fine job protecting me back at the cathedral.”

“It is my duty to—”

“But what I truly wish to say,” she interrupts, smiling slightly, “is that I wish for your company.”

Anna’s eyes widen. Genuinely, she is surprised.

“Very simply, I want you by my side.”

Never has anyone listened to the princess with such intensity, with so much focus. Anna gazes upon her as though she is telling the most magnificent of tales, as though she speaks of the transcendence of space and time, of stars and galaxies. It is flattering, to say the least, having a person give so much attention to her. Which is why—

“I am fond of you, Anna.”

The assassin’s cheeks become pink, as does the princess’ once she realizes what she has said. Before she can correct herself, however, the assassin gives her the most tender smile—one that rivals that of the sun shining upon the fjords of Arendelle. Anna brings her other hand up, resting it atop Elsa’s.

And, as her eyes pierce right through the princess’, she answers softly, “As am I.”

Elsa’s breath hitches.

This is perhaps the first, true friendship she has ever established. It is incomparable to those “bonds”—if she may define them as such—that she has created with the noblemen’s sons and daughters across the kingdom. It certainly cannot be equated to the brief connections she has made with the princes and princesses from other countries.

No.

Anna is different.

She is convinced that this is a friendship that will last. A friendship that she will cherish until the day she dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is absolutely INSANE how well-received this weird AF fic is, and I am soooo happy that you guys are enjoying it!! 
> 
> your comments, bookmarks, and kudos really do encourage me to go on with this wacky story, so i don't know what else to say other than THANK YOU!


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